


A Seat at the Table

by AuditoryCheesecake, uniqueinalltheworld



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Light Angst, Templar Carver Hawke, commission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 10:57:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7799101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuditoryCheesecake/pseuds/AuditoryCheesecake, https://archiveofourown.org/users/uniqueinalltheworld/pseuds/uniqueinalltheworld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skyhold isn't anything like what Carver expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Seat at the Table

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chiarascura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiarascura/gifts).



> This is Team AU's very first commissioned work! For our lovely friend and Patreon backer [Professionallilbrocarverhawke](https://professionallilbrocarverhawke.tumblr.com/)! <3 <3

Carver wasn’t exactly thrilled to be an official envoy from the Templars to the Inquisition. There was a short but intense history of… tension between the two organizations, and he didn’t think the bundle of letters his superiors had given him was going to make anything better. The worst of the lot was addressed to “Her Gracious and Revered Highness Herah Adder, Herald of Our Lady Andraste and Inquisitor of The Inquisition.” They’d spelled her name wrong on purpose.

And Carver was learning about her as he rode toward the Inquisition’s castle. She’d apparently found some farmer’s lost prize druffalo, which he didn’t quite believe, and played with some kid’s mabari for an hour, which he did. He could hear Varric’s voice in the back of his mind telling him how Fereldan he was, but he really thought it meant something. If dogs liked her, she was a good person in his books. 

But his opinion wasn’t the one that anyone wanted. To the farmers and hunters and merchants that he met on the road, he was just another soldier. He figured he was the same to the templars above his own Knight-Captain too, though to them he was just another soldier that they could order around. It helped that he was something of a conversation piece, a sort of secondhand Champion of Kirkwall. He’d learned quickly in the templars not to state his opinions too publicly, lest Marian later be accused of endorsing them. 

He did get a decent horse out of the ambassadorial deal, though riding for hours (and why did everyone assume he knew how to ride already? He grew up in _Lothering_.) each day made his ass ache, and a “discretionary purse” which bought him either a warm bath or a private room every night. It was almost luxurious.

It was weirdly lonely. No one asked his name, just called him “Ser Templar,” and no one came to his table without looking for something in return: information, a fight, an invitation to his room and a bit of coin. He was used to being surrounded by other people: other templars, his friends from Kirkwall (whom he did, occasionally, miss), Bethany. Carver swallowed and adjusted his hands on the reins. It was his birthday, soon. Would have been hers too. 

Skyhold, when he finally got there, was imposing. Everything from the height of the towers rising above the walls to the stream of people he could see coming and going even from a distance spoke to the Inquisition’s power. And it kept getting closer, and larger, until he finally reached the city of tents and makeshift buildings at the base of the final ascent. His superiors had vastly underestimated the reach of the Inquisition’s influence.

He heard people speaking in Antivan, Orlesian, even a couple of dialects from the Anderfels, and that was just the lowest level of craftspeople supporting the rank and file of the Inquisition.

He drew curious looks from the parties of soldiers that he passed on his way up the mountain and across the causeway, but none of them seemed bothered enough to challenge a lone Templar, sword and armor or no.

He was held at the second gate, though, and a runner dispatched to find “Lady Montilyet” to greet him and receive his letters.

A bustling Antivan lady materialized while he was engaged in a scowling contest with the gate guard. Apparently, he had to give up his sword in order to be let into the courtyard.

“Lady Inquisitor’s orders,” the guard said, and didn’t budge. Carver thought her helmet looked stupid, and said as much. She only shrugged. “Less swords means less stabbings.”

“As a show of goodwill towards our allies the Templars,” the Antivan lady said quickly, putting a dainty hand on the guard’s shoulder, “Ser Carver will be given special dispensation to carry his blade, for now.”

The guard stepped aside, _finally_ , and Carver was ushered under the portcullis and into the busy courtyard. 

In less than five minutes, she stabled his horse, took his letters (and his sword) and directed him toward the tavern. She had him talking the whole time, and Carver was convinced he’d just met the _true_ power behind the Inquisition.

The tavern, called the “Herald’s Rest,” naturally, was loud and nearly as rowdy as The Hanged Man. Even at the not-quite evening hour, it was full of civilians and people in Inquisition armor. There were mages and dwarves, a man in Warden gray, and even a Qunari with the most intimidating horns Carver had ever seen all mixing together like there was nothing strange about it.

Maybe there wasn’t. The Inquisition was by all accounts a bit of a bizarre place.

Carver waited patiently at the bar for a drink, but when a woman in Dalish armor who _definitely_ came in after him collected an entire tray of drinks and smirked at his armor, he cleared his throat and tapped a gold coin on the counter.

That brought the bartender his way, even if the man didn’t look too happy about it. “Ser Templar.” He kept scrubbing at the cup in his hands with a ragged cloth. “I’ve got ale, small beer, some wine, for that sort of coin.”

“Just something dark and Fereldan, please.” Like all the taverns he’d been in so far, no one seemed interested in talking to him. Well, it’s not like he’d come here to make friends, he reasoned.

He found an empty seat near the door he’d come in. No table, just his own knee to rest his mug on, but wasn’t too bad. The minstrel was better than decent, the ale was cold, and even though no one talked to him, the mood in the tavern was jolly.

“You’re in my seat, Templar,” someone said, startling him.

The man was wearing armor with the Kirkwall crest, but his accent was ‘Vintish, and he eyed Carver with something between suspicion and annoyance.

“I didn’t know it belonged to anybody but the tavern,” he said, because he didn’t like being ordered around by some stranger.

He took a swig of his ale, and the Vint held his gaze over the rim of the mug, arms crossed stubbornly.

“Anybody here can tell you this is where I sit.”

“Nobody here’s said much of anything to me at all.” He cursed the petulant note in his voice. Something about this place was making him feel like a kid in his sister’s shadow again, back at the Hanged Man where someone was always asking if he was really old enough to drink. 

The ‘Vint cracked a smile, though. “What’s your name, Templar? I’ll find you somewhere else to sit. With people, too.”

“Hawke,” he answered, and because who knew why this ‘Vint was wearing Kirkwall colors, “ _Carver_ Hawke.”

He held out a hand for Carver to shake, and tugged him to his feet. He was shorter by quite a bit, but Carver was impressed by his strength. “Krem Aclassi. I think I know just place for you, Ser Carver. Come meet the Bull’s Chargers.”

**Author's Note:**

> Say hi to U at [Eugenideswalksintoabar](http://eugenideswalksintoabar.tumblr.com) and A at [Acheesecakewrites](http://acheesecakewrites.tumblr.com)


End file.
